PART I

The Wardens announced their intent to seek out Ostagar only the evening before they left. Daen's mabari, Soris, slipped to his master's side on surprisingly silent feet. Wynne, with all her grandmotherly muster, insisted on joining them. Zevran tried to follow, but was stopped by a tired backwards glance. "Please, Zev. We talked about this," he said, and Zevran had no choice but to turn back and rejoin the others. They watched the small group leave through cold mists at dawn.

The little group returned a full two days later, in the middle of a lazy cloudless afternoon. The dog loped in first, his massive head held so low to the ground that he spared Zevran only the most cursory of glances through the corner of his eye. He assumed his customary post at the mouth of the campsite, but lay down as if to sleep, his head molded to his forepaws.

Wynne followed, her age in her eyes and descended to perch upon her shoulders. Leliana attempted to offer the mage a hot mug of Morrigan's latest batch of tea, but Wynne demonstrated that she was still capable of doing that much herself before disappearing silently into her tent, steaming mug in hand.

Daen and Alistair arrived last.

Zevran had seen the detached expressions on their faces before. Many of the younger Crows returned from a contract with the same look—not after their first or even second kills, but later, when they knew enough of their skills to know that they could be a thriving member of the Crows for many more years to come. The realization would strike like a death sentence, and be just as fatal to many. The veteran Crows called this time the Fledging, a rite of passage that often decided whether a Crow would resign himself to his fate, or be found as a rotting corpse sweetening the local water supply within the week. The former could truly call himself a Crow. The latter had never existed.

It was that moment of not knowing whether to accept a lifetime of treading water or to sink silently into a world away from here that haunted the Wardens' visages. There was a touch less hesitation in Daen than in Alistair, however, and Zevran felt a momentary spark of affection for the younger elf. He would have expected no less from the man he owed his life to than a readiness to move on.

Daen had grown on him quite a bit in recent weeks, Zevran had to admit. He hadn't quite known what to expect from the waifish youth with the ink black eyes and ragged pale hair all those many months ago, not while he had been so impatient to see the contract to its conclusion, whichever way it was meant to be. All Zevran knew was that he was to kill the Grey Wardens—and they clearly had the upper hand.

As he lay trussed at their feet, lacking only an apple in his mouth to complete the picture, years of training and practice at talking his way out of tight spots managed to get him out of the ropes and into the Wardens' own troupe of mismatched outcasts. From there, he had reasoned, it would be a simple matter of finding an opportunity to slip away into the night, finally free and with the Crows none the wiser. Perhaps he might even redeem himself and finish the job, should he choose. And how delicious it had felt to be able to choose!

But that opportunity had never come. He was well and truly trapped with the Wardens, just as surely as he had been with the Crows. Zevran couldn't turn around without finding himself on the periphery of the human Warden's suspicious eyes, while the dark-haired swamp witch seemed to be silently promising a world of pain every time she looked at him. After the Orlesian Chantry sister "accidentally" buried an arrow in a tree two inches from his nose while standing across the entire length of the campsite from him, he quickly figured out that she was not entirely the bubble-headed girl she pretended to be.

It was no better at night. They all took their share of nightwatches, of course, but the qunari and the mabari in particular both woke at the slightest sound even when not on duty. All the more frustrating, because the Warden he had bonded himself to still slept like the city-bred elf he was, still accustomed to his alienage life where danger came barging through the front door howling like a hound in heat, rather than slipping in with the shadows on padded feet. His unexplained Warden senses meant darkspawn never took him by surprise, but in everything else he was a reactor, not a sensor. And when he was deep into sleep, nothing short of a solid punch to the head would wake him.

He also had a strange penchant for allying himself with the oddest causes and persons he encountered almost everywhere he went. True, some of those were due to his obligations as a Grey Warden, but despite the urgency of his own situation, Daen had yet to turn down a request, even when it meant traversing bandit-ridden back alleys or demon-infested ruins—or worse, doing odd jobs for a Crow master. Zevran would have preferred to believe that Daen owed his habits more to a mercenary bent than the goodness of his heart, but even he would hesitate before placing a bet on it. There was a deliberate purpose beyond money to everything Daen did, whether it was out of kindness or cruelty. But, well, everyone had a weakness, somewhere. Daen's was fairly easy to decipher. He, like many of his city-born brethren, was the kind of elf who felt wronged beyond what material goods could remedy. His weakness was the immaterial; he fell prey to things like honor, family, camaraderie...and hands that chose him and him alone.

Zevran used that to his advantage, intending to protect himself from the tiresome constancy of watchful eyes. And it wasn't as though the mark himself was unattractive; he still looked like a boy from many angles, but he had a way of fighting, with deliberate, cocksure motions that spoke of foresight as well as a degree of training from childhood. And the slender body, the pale cornsilk hair—it all begged to be touched, and made things interesting.

He saw an opening on his first foray with Daen and the wilder witch. It took a bit of observation and simply biding his time, but all of the signs were there for him to take when the cards finally fell in his favor. It had not been the easiest seduction, what with Daen still raw from Morrigan's rejection and Alistair constantly muttering about daggers and poison. And although Zevran did not know how freely elves loved in the Denerim alienage—Fereldans were all so amusingly prudish compared to even the most modest Antivan—he did know that their lives were never really theirs, and he could only guess that their love lives were much the same. Whether it was the walls that corralled them in the lowest point of the city or the preening humans that strode through on a daily basis, looking for sport as casually as one would browse a market stall for a new dress-shirt, few elves in Denerim could expect long, happy lives with their loved ones intact. It was no wonder that Daen guarded his heart with such a careful hand.

He had nothing else to do for the time being, however, and unlike similar games he played in the past, he did not have a pressing deadline to distract him from the pursuit. It made chipping his way into Daen's trust and affections an interesting game, with rewards presenting themselves almost every day, whether it was an intimate moment or childhood memories Zevran himself did not have.

Zevran had once described an Antivan sunset to the Warden—idle pillow talk, no more—and had been pleasantly surprised when Daen responded with a memory of his own. Daen was already half-asleep, one hand curled comfortably against the small of Zevran's back and the blanket pulled over his nose, and mumbled drowsily that he used to climb to the upper branches of his alienage's vhenedhal almost every day and strain his eyes into the sunset, hoping to see further and further beyond the horizon. Scaling the sacred vhenedhal earned him constant scolding from the Elder and his father, but he still did it; above the squalor and with the green smell of the tree in his nostrils, wreathed in bark and leaves and staring into the rose of light blooming over thatched and tiled roofs, it was so easy to imagine taking his entire family into the lands beyond that horizon. Somewhere outside the alienage lay a cleaner, happier, and freer life that Daen could only dream of, bathed in the rust-gold rays of the dying sun.

Zevran had liked the image of a towheaded elven child, black eyes ablaze, clinging to the branches of a vhenedhal, so he asked Daen what he thought that life looked like, wondering where that child would climb next. A farm, a big farm, with cows and wheat and grass and apple trees, Daen replied just before he slipped into unconsciousness. The assassin couldn't help chuckling as he remembered the reply, just as he had when he heard it then. Open land he could understand, considering the packed conditions of most alienages, but farms were smelly things that he personally preferred to avoid. The Denerim alienage must be miserable indeed, if a farm was Daen's personal vision of the Golden City!

Daen still would not say much about how he ended up in the Grey Wardens, except that it was not the way he had envisioned himself leaving the alienage. Human games at work, again, he had hinted bitterly, but said no more. No doubt it was part of the reason why Daen was a little on the angry side for one so young. Zevran could understand that. Humans had often toyed with his life in Antiva, although with the exception of the Guildmasters, he found many chances to toy right back. But Daen was a fair bit younger than Zevran, and he had had a family to protect. Zevran thought that that had helped Daen in keeping a gentle heart, even if it could only be seen after much convincing. And what an interesting heart it was, at first caress fluttering like a snared allodal's wings, then, with each additional touch, settling into the rhythm of the tides drumming against the bellies of boats at harbor! It almost moved one to poetry.

Like music to my ears, and the finest leather beneath my fingers.

Of the two Wardens, though, Zevran had much less patience for Alistair—he wasn't sleeping with the man, after all—but, despite how tedious the human could be otherwise, even Zevran could recognize that Alistair was a Warden for the times. He had found Alistair's demeanor intriguing enough at first, too, until Alistair put two and two together, confirmed his suspicions with Wynne, Leliana, and even Morrigan, and then told Zevran (blush creeping well past his collar and hairline) that he was "not interested, actually a lady kind of guy, thanks." Zevran had not minded; there was nothing wrong with appreciating beauty for what it was, even if it led to nothing else, and he told Alistair this frankly in an attempt to soothe the human's Fereldan sensibilities. Unfortunately, the comment had just made the young man watch Zevran even more closely. Zevran hadn't minded that, either. Alistair wasn't the type to hide his hand, unlike his fellow Warden, and Zevran happily took advantage of that, exploiting Alistair's discomfort whenever he needed to pass the time.

But where Daen's past was a shield, Alistair's was a cloak, and one wrapped so closely about his shoulders that he had thoroughly tangled himself in its entire length. Alistair, like Daen, did not speak of certain parts of his past. They had only just discovered that Alistair was a potential heir to Ferelden's throne—the blood of King Calenhad, no less! Zevran could only guess at what else the young human was hiding from all of them, even his fellow Grey Warden. But whatever it was, it was the reason why the senior Warden followed while the junior led when custom dictated it be the other way around. Zevran could only hope, for Alistair's sake, that he would one day learn to lay his past down.

The trip to Ostagar, however, clearly had not helped.

"Somebody get those whelps a drink," Oghren muttered, watching Daen settle Alistair into a seat by the fire.

"Oh? Are you offering your own stores, my soggy friend?" Zevran glanced at the dwarf, only to be met by a glazed pair of eyes that would look more at home in a mother wolf's face than a dwarf's.

"Soddin'—! Keep yer fancy elf mitts off my stash, ye bloody thief!"

"True, I am not above a burgle or two, but I must admit I prefer exercising my talents in other fields." Zevran eyed Alistair's hunched back. Daen seemed to be paying quite a bit of attention to the human—maybe a little more than necessary. "But if our Wardens cannot share in your wealth, then perhaps you might be willing to help me liberate a few kegs from the Spoiled Princess?"

"Bah! I'll ilebreate 'm myself. My treat fer those sorry excuses of Wardens we're stuck with now. The Archdemon could send a half dead hurlock te fart on 'm right now and we'd be outta Wardens in no time." Oghren drained the skin he kept tucked under his beard, belched brimstone, and stood, hefting his axe over his shoulder. "Be right back. An' if you hear a fart...well, it might just be me, but 'm countin' on ye to clear those damn Wardens outta here. Jus' let Morrigan handle the hurlock. Tell 'er a fireball ought to do the trick. Either that or 'er soddin' tea."

Daen eventually asked Leliana to sing something, and it was clear that her voice took minds off of Ostagar. Even the dog had tucked himself into the crook of Daen's arm to listen, occasionally licking Alistair's hand in a gesture of sympathy. Daen's narrow shoulders barely cleared the dog's head when they stood together, and the size difference between the bonded pair was even more obvious now, with Daen reclined against his mabari's bulk. Zevran contemplated approaching, but both Wardens seemed preoccupied. Zevran instead turned his attention to Wynne when the woman emerged from her tent to return to the fire, empty mug dangling from her hand.

"I am wondering whether you would care to share what happened at Ostagar, my darling Wynne?" Zevran handed Wynne the heated pot of water before she had even reached for it. She took it without comment and tipped it towards her mug.

Wynne sighed. "Zevran, for the last time, I am not your—oh, never mind." The mage filled her mug, handed the pot back to Zevran, and inhaled the rising steam before continuing. "The camp was deserted, of course. Scavengers and snow and darkspawn and those nasty giant cave spiders everywhere. And we...found King Cailan. What the spawn had left of him, anyway."

"Oh. I see." Zevran cast a furtive glance at Daen. "The Wardens are not taking it very well."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand, Zevran. You weren't there that night. And you never knew the king."

Zevran shrugged. "Perhaps not. Then again, Daen seems to be doing better than Alistair."

Wynne arched an eyebrow. "Somehow, that comment doesn't surprise me. But you're probably correct, and with reason. Daen only met King Cailan once, and then only the day before the battle. As far as he's concerned, the king was just another human with a sword." Wynne chuckled wryly. "Alistair...he hasn't spoken much of it, but I shouldn't have to remind you that King Cailan was his brother...and his leader. His hope. His king."

"Hope?" Zevran returned Wynne's skeptical glance. "From what I have heard, your king was a bit of a fool, and not a very great king at all."

Wynne could be hard to read, but the kind mask she usually wore fell at his words to reveal a woman he would have done his best to avoid on the battlefield. "He was my king, too, Zevran."

"Ah. I apologize."

The mask returned. "As I said, I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Fair enough, sweet Wynne. Fair enough. Now, I think you should know—I have sent Oghren on a mission of utmost importance, and it is my hope that you will not disapprove so much when he returns."

"Oh?" She gave him a suspicious look.

"Yes. You see, they looked so tense, and libations do so many wonders for relieving stress."

"You sent the camp drunk to get alcohol, in order to get the Wardens drunk." She shook her head. "Sweet Maker, save me from the men I travel with."

"I am hurt!"

"You are not. What were you expecting me to do, smile and approve of what will surely mean constant babysitting while Alistair and Daen disgorge their dinner into the wee hours of the morning?"

"Hmm...maybe it was a little too much to ask for."

"I should think so. I would put you and Oghren in charge of the nursery, except we'd likely wake up with dead babes. Leliana can do it. I am planning on getting some sleep."

"You shall see, oh winsome one, that I made the correct decision." He winked. "And Oghren will be bringing a cask back for you, as well."

"Oh?" Wynne seemed mollified. "Well, that doesn't sound too bad, then."

Hmm. No wonder Daen keeps giving her bottles of wine. He is on to something, that little gatto.

Oghren returned within the hour, interrupting Leliana's rendition of "Dane and the Werewolf" ("In honor of our own Daen," she'd said with a wink before beginning). He rolled a full keg before him, his pack clinking cheerfully over his back and his face pink with exertion—and, judging from his breath, some sampling. "Saint Oghren's back, an' he's brought yer presents, kiddos," he wheezed. "Gather 'round!"

Shale, who rarely moved from the position it took whenever they made camp, had followed Oghren to the campfire. "Oh, joy, any presents the drunk dwarf has in its possession are surely not poisonous or foul in any way," the golem said flatly. "It drinks so much that it probably pisses spirits. I suspect it stole a barrel and filled it itself."

Leliana gagged. "Oh, thank you for that, Shale."

"Well, yes, that was rather quick, Oghren," Wynne said suspiciously.

Oghren shrugged. "Ran into an elf merchant right outside o' the Spoiled Princess, droppin' off all kinds o' spirits fer the innkeeper. Said she was tryin' te lighten 'er wagon, on account o' outrunnin' the Blight an' 'avin' 'er whole family along fer the ride. So ye know me, couldn' pass up a chance te help out!" He dropped his backpack on the ground with so much force that Zevran was surprised nothing had shattered.

"Did you buy her entire stock?" Wynne asked, wrinkling her nose as she watched Zevran open Oghren's pack and reveal a veritable army of glass bottles. Leliana peered over Zevran's shoulder, looking at the bottles with an interested gleam in her eyes.

Oghren pretended not to hear her, busying himself with standing the keg on a nearby tree stump. "Alistair! Daen! Come on, this one's all fer you two!"

Zevran, meanwhile, turned and triumphantly plunked a dusty green bottle by Wynne's feet. "And this one is for you, sweet Wynne!"

Wynne snorted softly as she examined the bottle. "9:18 Dragon out of Amaranthine...not the finest year for their grapes. The wet gave them all a very distinctly fishy flavor. Stuck to the back of your throat like an apprentice's popped toad on the wall. Or was that 9:02...? Hand me my corkscrew, Zevran."

The Wardens, meanwhile, had wandered over to Oghren, and were eying the keg with some consternation. "Are you serious, Oghren?" Alistair finally asked, the first words Zevran had heard him speak since returning from Ostagar. His voice was a bit stuffy, as though he was still moping. "I'm not really in the mood..."

"Trust me, pike-twirler, this kinda mood is the best kinda mood fer drinkin' yer arse te oblivion." Oghren tapped the barrel with a single expert strike of a hammer. "Hand me yer mugs."

Daen shrugged and bent to untie the mugs he and his brother Warden kept tied to their packs. Alistair sighed and helped him undo the knots on his own mug, passing both to Oghren. "Maker, the last thing I need right now is to die from drinking whatever foul brew Oghren's dragged in to camp..."

"Don' deride 'fore ye imbibe," Oghren said.

"What?"

Oghren shoved a foaming mug into Alistair's hands. "Time te bring the lightnin' down on yer head, Chantry boy."

Sorry about the magically disappearing prologue. -K, 11/05/2012